OOC: Heyman told me to do this, it's not my fault!


Morning came a lot faster than it normally did, I think to myself as the sunlight pours through the broken blind, into my eye sockets. We really need to get that fixed, or I need to stop falling asleep facing the sun. Either one's fine for me. I press my hands against the cushions of this vomit green colored couch, pushing off and getting into a sitting position. The sunlight that I still wasn't used to quite yet pounds on my eyes, forcing them to remain closed as I slowly get off the couch. My head pounds, sending a reaction the ends with me wondering just what happened last night, and why I can't remember a single thing about the last 24 or so hours.

I remember losing the European title match at Leap of Stakes, no, that's not right. Height of Faith? Leap of Faith! That was it, I remember hitting my head on the floor a couple of times, and Feder walking out with the belt. Everything else, was a bit fuzzy in my memory. I'll watch the tape in private. First, to, what was I going to do again? Damn, was Leap of Faith yesterday, or two days ago, or what? Wait, isn't it a bad idea to go to sleep with a possible concussion? Why am I asking myself questions that I can't remember the answers to?

Shit, I don't know.

I walk toward the bedroom where sure enough, Anna wasn't. Good, as with every breath I took, I winced in pain, my ribs feeling as though they had been fractured at the least. Anna can't see me like this, she would get way too suspicious. I can picture it now, her fiery eyes burning down every lie I could possibly tell, it just couldn't happen. Note to self, abuse Vicodin for the next couple of days. Secondary note, not too much. Tertiary note, get prescription for Vicodin before going through with the first two notes.

Yeah, definitely get Vicodin.

From in the kitchen, I can hear the sound of a phone ringing, which is odd, because I have my phone right here, and Anna normally has her's. Wait a second, I recognize that tone, that's the, landline? I thought we disconnected that thing months ago! Oh well, I probably should see who it is on the other end...

Or not, I think I start a slow, pseudo jog to the kitchen. No, my body is having none of that right now. I collapse on the floor, clutching my ribs. Jeez, did I get hit by a goddamn truck or something? I mean, I did always bruise easily, but does that equate to having the brittlest bones known to mankind? Screw it, I don't want to move from this position in ever. Let the machine get it.

"Hey, Jessica? Anna? It's your landlord, Wilson. I'm coming by in a few minutes to collect your rent."

Oh good God why? Why now?

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the pounding in every part of my body. Jeez, why did I even go through with this? I race to the table, which conveniently enough was inches away from where my body gave up on me, and scan the mess of useless stuff for the rent money. There we go!

It sits where it always does, in the dead center of the table, surrounded by everything, if there was one thing I was glad that Anna did, it was her nigh OCD obsession with keeping things ordered, or I wouldn't be able to find a damn thing in this apartment.

Wilson's voice comes through the paper thin walls as he approaches the door. I can hear him fumbling with his keys through the silence in and outside of the apartment. The sound of him jamming the key into the lock makes me jump, and causes me to stumble over the leg of the chair I was standing behind. Perfect, this is exactly how I wanted my day to start; falling on my ass every five seconds, and having to deal with my fucking landlord. Having a headache that's throbbing harder than the erection Paul Heyman gets when he sees me isn't much fun either.

The door opens up, and in Wilson steps. His hair a mess, looking disheveled as ever. Perfect, he looks like he went on a bender of whatever the fuck those pills he takes are for. I totally feel safe handing over money to him. Oh well, at the worst, our shitty furnace won't get fixed again (something that does fall on him, as noted in the lease) but it's July! Why care about that, yet?

He steps into the main room, and his eyes focus on my face, and not on my hands for once. Something's really wrong here...

"What the fuck happened to ya?"

Huh? I poke my face with two fingers, until I touch the skin right under my left eye, which forces me to recoil. Dammit, I bruise way too easily.

"What happened, did Anna hit you?"

He has a serious look on his face as he suggests that, which dissolves quickly as we both laugh at how preposterous a situation like that would be.

"No, it happened at work."

...And I instantly regret saying that, because although it is true, he only knows me as a call center employee, along with those two equally shitty other jobs I had. Thinking back to that makes me glad I went through with this actually. Coming home with bruises over half of your body is still better than one eight hour shift at that fucking call center. Fuck that place.

"What happened, hang up a phone too hard?"

"Very funny, asshole."

Yeah, I really wasn't in the mood for jokes. I just wanted him to take his fucking money and leave. It seemed however, like he wasn't too keen on doing that. He pulled up a chair next to where I was standing and sat down. Just leave already!

"Why don't you tell me what happened?"

God. Fucking. Dammit. I. Already. Told. You. Leave.

"I told you, it happened at work."

Do I need to show him the tape too? it's bad enough I can't remember what caused every thing, and now to have someone else too curious than the answers I can really give breathing down my neck. Since when does he even care about my well being anyway?

I reach out with the hand that still clutched the money, and he snatches it without hesitation. Sliding it into his back pocket, he doesn't get out of the chair. In fact, he crosses his leg over the other in the shape of a four. Holmes, you House looking sonovabitch, I swear to Christ, I'm going to-

"And I told you, that's a load of bullshit."

"That's what happened, don't like it? Too bad. Now get out."

"There's more to this, I know it."

"Good job, Sherlock!"

The sarcasm is strong with this one...


"And, we're live!"

Steve Sayors' eyes gleam as he walks back to the stool beside mine, the camera aimed at the two of us. He told me meet him the bar of this hotel, and all I see around me is tacky decor out the ass. Classy move, Professional Interviewer Guy.

"Steve Sayors, along with the beautiful Jessie Diaz. Now Jessie, what's your take on the open tournament for the Number One Contendership to the European Championship?"

Well, to be honest it seems like Heyman throwing his hands up at a challenge and saying fuck it, but probably shouldn't say that on air.

"I think it's a wonderful opportunity for everyone to prove why they desrve the title shots they always demand when they talk normally!"

What? Someone had to say it.

"Very well, are you planning on entering, after your failure at grasping the title at Leap of Faith."

Failure? I got out of it alive, and pride intact. That's a win in my book any day.

"Well, normally I wouldn't, on the grounds of pride. Letting others get a turn and whatnot, however something about me seems different. It's like I caught the fever. I kind of like it."

That, or I caught some STD from Moxley's blood. He bled, right? I don't think I'd like Gonorrhea very much, so I doubt it's that.

"Sounds interesting! Now, there's already so much talent in this tournament so far, adding in someone who's already been to the big dance so to speak would only benefit this already stacked card. What are your thoughts on the competition?"

Why does this part still happen? We all know the outcome...

"Well, there are so many people to talk about. In fact, I wouldn't even know where to start. Maybe with the first person to sign up, Jonny Rebel? First, nice name, I'm sure everyone at the Bowling for Soup concert thinks it's kick ass. Now that that's out of the way...

I don't even know what to say about this guy. This is his debut, so we haven't seen him do anything in the ring, and he's just said some of the most idiotic and, odd things that I've heard anyone here say.

Now, I've heard way stupider, just not from anyone here not named Hunter Payne. Then again, who takes him seriously any more? Am I right, or am I right? Back to Rebel. We'll have to see how you turn out. I don't have high hopes, so I doubt you'll disappoint.

Andrew Aldway is someone I can say I have respect for. In a competition sense that is, haven't met him, and wouldn't really like to. Then again, I doubt he's really here to give two fucks about what some chick thinks about him, so I don't think this will annoy him all that much.

Andrew Morrison? Who? Oh yeah! I know him! He creeps me out, big fucking time. No comment further.

John Austin. I almost had him in the Hell in a Cell match come to think about it. If I remember right, that is. This time, no one's going to be able to save him if I lock in any one of my playful little holds in on him. Hell, I could always 'not hear' his tapping, and snap his arm like a twig. Or maybe tear his knee to shreds, or choke him into a coma. So many possibilities, and aren't they all so pretty?

Luca Arzegotti. Hmmm, nope. Not starting that mess.

Mister Radio? I can't say I know too much about him, other than the fact that he acted or masqueraded as Satty's brother to get his foot in the door, and that he isn't doing shit to follow up on that. That's kinda sad, when his brother was, at that time a double champion, and no one noticed that there was an alarming difference in the talent level between the two. I mean, Satty's, Satty, and what are you? Nothing worth a damn here, that's for sure. Maybe you should go back to wherever the fuck it is you came from, and get some more recognition in that society. Here in America, well Singapore now, but normally America, the only way you can get by with mediocrity is being a senator or congressman.

Crimson Dong? Uh, I don't even know how to respond.

I-Evertrust. I, like him. Odd, but, there's something about him, something I can't put my finger on, but I like him. Can't say anything past that."

"And cut!"

The cameras stop rolling, and Steve turns to me.

"And you didn't even really freak out this time."

"Yeah, I didn't."

He and the cameraman whose name I always forget walk off, out of the bar, leaving me here, with the shitty fucking decor. Man, I fucking hate Singapore.